The Kings Man

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  By the time he’d come to his knees and pushed through to the pot only the oily scum was left on the bottom. But he scraped his bread across it anyway and sucked the soup from the bread. It tasted so good: beef and onion.

  Tears stung his eyes. Who thought food could make you cry?

  The others settled back to gnaw on their bread. Garzik tried one more scrape of the pot but it was empty.

  ‘Push the pot and empty basket out here,’ Grufyd ordered.

  He did as he was told, and the cabin door was shut in his face.

  Garzik leant against the wall and chewed his way through the bread, savouring every mouthful. With food in his belly and the combined warmth of the cabin he felt a glow move through his body and sleep creep upon him.

  He should stay awake in case a chance presented itself to escape.

  He woke when the ship’s motion changed. It felt like a lot of time had passed; he had to pee. From the muffled shouts they were sailing with the tide. He’d missed his chance.

  Now he’d end up in Merofynia serving Lord Travany, just as the scribe said. In fact... he’d be in an ideal position to spy. Between them, he and Mitrovan could find out something useful to help Byren.

  Now, he was glad he’d let Mitrovan believe he was a spy.

  Chapter Four

  BY MIDDAY, EVERYONE was seasick. At first they complained and whined. In the end, they endured.

  The one bucket acquired a queue. Not everyone made it to the bucket. There was nowhere to empty it, and soon they were all soiled. The soup, so good going down, soon covered the floor. The stench, combined with the lack of light, convinced Garzik he had never been more miserable.

  In all his days, fishing on the lake, he’d never been seasick; but back then he’d been in the open air.

  When the cook’s lad turned up that evening with another tub of thin soup, he took one look inside the cabin and backed off.

  ‘Bring another bucket,’ Mitrovan called.

  ‘Bring a dozen,’ some wit yelled.

  A few moments later an old sailor opened the cabin door for Master Cialon, who took one breath and backed up, sleeve over his mouth and nose. The door was shut and locked.

  Garzik waited, hopeful for hot water to wash in, some sailor’s remedy to settle their stomachs and a change of clothes – at the very least, some time on deck in the fresh air.

  They were left in their own filth.

  Garzik no longer felt sick. He no longer felt anything.

  It might have been mid-morning the next day when the door finally opened. Grufyd stood there, watching over the cook’s lad, who carried buckets and mops.

  As the lad handed these over, Grufyd told them, ‘clean up and you’ll be allowed out to wash.’

  Garzik had never cleaned his own clothes or scrubbed a floor in his life, but if it meant getting out of that cabin, he’d do it.

  Three of the captives were too sick to move. The others pitched in, some mopped up and the others shuffled out of the way, while Garzik and Mitrovan scrubbed.

  Once the cabin was clean and the filthy bedding rolled up, Grufyd let them out. They carried the three weakest up to the middeck, where they all stripped off and were doused with icy-cold sea water.

  Meanwhile, the sailors and Merofynian men-at-arms mocked them. A lad of no more than nine or ten scampered about. Egged on by the jeers and cheers of the audience, he darted in to pinch cold buttocks.

  ‘Make them squeal, Yorwyth!’

  Garzik was sorely tempted to trip the lad, but it would have only brought the ire of the men-at-arms down on them, so he ignored Yorwyth and took advantage of the saltwater soap to wash; it stung his abraded skin.

  By the time the bathing was done, Garzik was blue with cold, teeth chattering so badly he couldn’t speak. Feo kept up a constant stream of complaints, but never loud enough for their captors to work out who was speaking.

  Given dry blankets, they rubbed their chilled skin to get some feeling back. The ship’s surgeon inspected their injuries, repacked the wounds of the weakest three and announced they would have to be moved to the sickbay.

  Their clothes and blankets had gone into a tub of seawater and now had to be washed. Naturally, when there was work, Feo was nowhere to be seen. Fed up with him, Garzik wrapped the blanket around his hips and plunged his hands into the cold water.

  After a moment, Mitrovan joined him.

  ‘This is not right for your disguise,’ the skinny scribe whispered. ‘This is women’s work. No man, let alone an educated scribe, willingly does women’s work.’

  ‘Then why are you helping me?’

  ‘To cover for you.’

  ‘What about scrubbing the cabin?’

  ‘That...’ Mitrovan shuddered. ‘That was self-preservation.’

  Garzik grinned.

  He didn’t mind washing. Moving kept him warm and work took his mind off the seasickness. Although, now that he was out in the fresh air, he felt better. Almost hungry.

  It was so good to be out of that foul cabin.

  While the others huddled in their blankets in a corner of the deck, out of the wind, he and Mitrovan wrung the clothes and hung them on the rigging.

  A man-at-arm grabbed his crotch. ‘I got something here needs wringing out. How ’bout you come over an’ fix it.’

  Garzik pretended he didn’t understand him. With the wet washing flapping around them, Mitrovan pursed his lips in disapproval.

  ‘You speak Merofynian?’ Garzik whispered, although the man’s gesture had been enough to convey his meaning.

  ‘As do you.’ Mitrovan cast him an assessing look. ‘I read and write it, too, Ostronite as well. You?’

  Garzik nodded. He was beginning to think the skinny scribe was as smart as Orrade.

  ‘That makes you very well educated for a lord’s son,’ Mitrovan said.

  He was right. Most lords had basic reading and writing skills and left the rest up to their scribes. Garzik neither agreed nor disagreed because, although Mitrovan claimed he was discrete, the scribe was always fishing for clues as to Garzik’s true identity. To distract him, Garzik said, ‘I visited a markiz in Port Marchand. His scribes could figure numbers in their heads, but when it came to writing, they knew only Rolencian.’

  ‘That’s because they were counting-scribes.’

  ‘So you can’t do numbers?’ Garzik teased gently.

  ‘Of course I can do numbers, I...’ Mitrovan broke off and gave a sheepish grin. ‘I can do everything the average scribe can, and more besides.’

  They were alone. This was his chance. Garzik lowered his voice. ‘You’re right. I am a spy and I need your help.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Mitrovan crowed, then glanced around and dropped his voice. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Keep your eyes open. If you see anything that might help Byren reclaim Rolencia, pass the information along to me.’

  ‘You can rely on me, Garzik Dovecoteson.’

  Garzik blinked.

  Mitrovan’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’re wearing the Dovecote crest on your indoor servant’s uniform and you say Byren Kingson’s name like he’s your friend.’ The scribe grew serious. ‘You really must be more careful.’

  Garzik nodded. ‘I’m Wyvern, the scribe who can’t remember his name.’

  Hands red from the cold and rough soap, Garzik hung the last wet blanket on the rigging then hitched his own blanket over his shoulders, tucking his hands under his armpits. ‘Feel like I’ll never get warm again. My hands are so numb I can hardly make a fist.’

  Mitrovan adjusted his blanket and they turned to join the others. ‘As long as we get fed, I –’

  A high pitched scream from above cut him off. Someone crashed down through the rigging and fell in front of them, hitting the deck hard with a solid thump that cut off his cry.

  They both jumped back.

  The boy who’d teased them mercilessly lay sprawled on the deck, one leg bent at an impossible angle. His terrified eyes stared up at them as
his mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.

  Mitrovan darted forward.

  ‘Don’t move him.’ Garzik warned. He knelt to study the boy.

  Yorwyth’s breath came in rapid, terrified gasps.

  Dimly, Garzik heard sailors shouting and feet running. He was aware of someone kneeling opposite as he placed one hand on the lad’s shoulder and looked into his eyes.

  ‘Trust you to fall off the rigging, Yorwyth. Always showing off.’ It was the kind of thing Captain Blackwing would have said, and it worked.

  The terror ebbed from the boy’s eyes as he tried to sit up.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Garzik advised. ‘Let the ship’s surgeon run his hands over you. He has to earn his keep.’

  ‘That leg...’ Mitrovan whispered.

  ‘What’s wrong with my leg?’ Yorwyth shrilled.

  ‘You’ve gone and broken it,’ Garzik told him, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. ‘Nothing a splint and rest can’t fix.’

  The surgeon arrived and they were sent off to join the rest of the captives.

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’ the baker’s apprentice asked.

  ‘Serve the brat right if he broke his neck,’ Feo muttered.

  ‘Leg’s broken,’ Garzik said, watching as the sailors lifted the lad between them and carried him into the cabin under the rear deck, with the ship’s surgeon following like an anxious mother hen. It seemed a lot of fuss for a cabin boy.

  After that nothing of interest happened. Several of the captives still suffered from seasickness but all they could do was dry retch. No one had anything in their stomachs.

  A little while later, they heard a short scream and then silence.

  ‘Poor little bugger,’ the cabinet-maker muttered. ‘No fun getting the bone back in alignment.’

  The baker’s apprentice made a strangled sound in his throat and ran to the side.

  Despite this, Garzik’s stomach growled. He thought he’d been hungry before. But now...

  The wind blew strong. Not a cloud marred the winter-blue sky as the convoy of Merofynian ships laden with war booty wove their way through the broken tips of the spars. They passed steep-sided islands with small patches of fertile land, home to stunted bushes and wild birds.

  Now that the swelling had gone done enough for Garzik to open his bad eye, he was grateful to discover he could see clearly.

  No one came near them. But enough of Lord Travany’s men-at-arms wandered the deck to deter any thought of jumping overboard. And besides, that would only lead to death, for even if they were lucky enough to be swept onto an island before the cold killed them, most of the far-flung spar islands were little more than rocky outcroppings and those that were suitable for habitation were settled by stoic spar warriors and their families.

  Little better than Utlanders, not only did these spar inhabitants bear no love for Rolencians or Merofynians, there was no food to spare in their cottages at any rate.

  The smell of lunch cooking wafted up from the galley. Chicken, oregano, onions and beans never smelled so good. It got Garzik’s stomach going. At this rate he’d gnaw off his own leg.

  Soon the majority of men-at-arms went below. Garzik watched them go, stomach clenching and unclenching with hunger pains. The captives remained seated, huddled together for warmth, dressed only in blankets, while their clothing dried.

  ‘Say, Feo,’ the cabinet-maker prodded. ‘Reckon you could charm some scraps from the cook?’

  ‘Not a chance. I don’t suck cock. Why don’t you try it?’

  The cabinet-maker threw off his blanket and came into a crouch. ‘Watch your mouth, braggart.’

  ‘Look!’ Mitrovan pointed desperately. ‘They’re bringing us food.’

  Animosity forgotten, they turned to see the kitchen lad carry a pot towards them. From the smell, it contained the same dish. Grufyd followed with a basket of bread scraps.

  More than half the injured captives surged towards the food. This time Garzik knew what to do and was on his knees with a heel of bread ready to get his share when a voice said. ‘You.’ He looked up. ‘Yes, you.’

  As much as he wanted to ignore the command, Garzik came to his feet, hiding the bread under his blanket.

  ‘Come here.’ It was the sailor who’d knelt beside Yorwyth and another one, older, grizzled. From the way the sailors had jumped when the older one spoke, Garzik guessed he was the first mate.

  Garzik took a step closer, aware that Mitrovan had also come to his feet. The scribe was half a head taller than him but so skinny he looked like a puff of wind would knock him over. All the same, Garzik appreciated his support.

  ‘That’s him? You sure?’ the first-mate asked, looking Garzik up and down with some misgivings. ‘With a face like that, he’d scare small children.’

  ‘He handled Yorwyth well,’ the other insisted. They spoke Merofynian, unaware that both Garzik and Mitrovan understood.

  ‘I hope you’re right. With a drunken sot for a doctor...’ The first-mate switched to rough Rolencian. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

  Garzik opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  ‘He can’t remember,’ Mitrovan said. ‘The blow to his head –’

  ‘But his wits are all there,’ the sailor assured the first-mate. ‘According to Master Cialon, he’s an indoor servant. They’ve named him Wyvern, so he gets Wynn for short. He’ll clean up all right and, when his face heals –’

  ‘He’ll still have a scar.’

  ‘He’s a scribe,’ Mitrovan offered, as though he didn’t understand what was being said. ‘So am I. We could be useful.’

  ‘And why would you offer your services to a Merofynian?’ the first-mate asked.

  Mitrovan shrugged. ‘Anything to get out of that cabin. I don’t want to be covered in puke again.’

  Both sailors laughed.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right, Sionor.’ The first mate beckoned Garzik. ‘Come this way.’

  Garzik hesitated.

  Mitrovan leant close. ‘This is your chance to impress Master Cialon and put in a good word for me.’

  Garzik nodded and adjusted his blanket as he followed the first mate, who had not waited to see if he would obey. While Garzik jogged to catch up, he gnawed at the bread. It was hard crust, but he didn’t care.

  Instead of taking him below to Master Cialon, the first mate led him into the captain’s cabin under the high rear deck. The captain stood over the ship’s surgeon, who knelt beside a bed roll where the boy lay. His leg had been splinted, and he looked pale but asleep. Garzik assumed they’d given him dreamless-sleep.

  ‘This is the one,’ the first mate said. ‘Sionor says he has a way with the lad.’

  The three men turned to look at Garzik. Who swallowed a mouthful of bread and tried to look respectable. But he was only too aware of his swollen face and naked body under the blanket.

  ‘You’re sure?’ the captain asked. ‘He’s not well favoured.’

  ‘It’s the bruising. He’ll heal up in a week or two,’ the surgeon said, speaking Merofynian with the unmistakable accent of an educated man. His clothing had been fine once, but now it was as creased as his thin face. Fixing bleary eyes on Garzik, he switched to Rolencian. ‘Do you know how to care for a broken leg?’

  Garzik nodded. ‘I broke my arm two summers ago. The healer gave me willowbark for the pain and told me to rest while the bone knitted.’ He lifted the arm in question. ‘Works fine now.’

  The men exchanged looks.

  ‘He’s well spoken for a scribe,’ the captain muttered in Merofynian. ‘Sounds like a noble. Should make you feel right at home, Rishardt.’

  The surgeon ignored him, beckoning Garzik, who knelt beside him.

  ‘It’ll be your task to care for this lad. I’ve given him something for the pain, but he’ll wake by dusk and he’ll be complaining. You’re to give him five drops of this tincture in wine. No more, even if he begs. Understood?’

  Garzik nodded. ‘For how long?’ The surgeon bli
nked. ‘How long before it wears off and he needs more to dull the pain?’ Garzik asked, noting the wine on the surgeon’s breath. ‘Can he have it around midnight?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rishardt gave him a thoughtful look. ‘And more again at dawn.’ He went to stand then stopped. ‘Mind you do a good job with him. He’s Lord Yorale’s youngest son.’

  The name meant nothing to Garzik, but he nodded and stayed by the boy as the surgeon and captain spoke above his head.

  ‘Rishardt, I’m confiscating your wine until he’s safely delivered to his father,’ the captain said. ‘That man’s –’

  ‘A prick, I know.’

  The captain’s chuckle covered Garzik’s stifled gasp.

  ‘Worse, he’s a noble prick,’ the captain agreed. ‘Bad enough his son fell and broke his leg while serving our lord, but if his leg festers and we have to take it –’

  ‘This seven-year-slave’s smart. Really smart. He’ll do a good job.’

  ‘He will if he knows what’s good for him.’

  Garzik dismissed the surgeon’s words. Rishardt only thought he was smart because they’d never met Orrade.

  ‘Fail me in this, Rishardt, and I’ll sail to the nearest wyvern eyrie and feed you to them!’

  The surgeon shrugged. ‘I’ll do what I can. But there are things beyond any surgeon’s control.’

  To Garzik, the captain’s threat seemed like the kind of exaggerated joke Byren would make, but Rishardt’s reply had been serious.

  Out of his depth, Garzik was not sure how to take these men. He knew enough of Merofynia to know it was customary for the younger sons of lords to be fostered out to noble families, where they served as squires to learn their warrior-craft, or cabin boys to learn their sea-craft. This created bonds of obligation and alliances between the lords that were almost as strong as marriages of alliance. Clearly, Lord Yorale was not the kind of man Lord Travany wanted as an enemy.

  Head down, Garzik smiled to himself. Mitrovan was right. He was in an ideal position to spy for Rolencia. Once he worked his way into Travany’s trust, he could find out what the Merofynians were planning and...